


These Nights Host Fire

by seelieknight



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:44:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7451659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seelieknight/pseuds/seelieknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhysand's POV: Feyre finds out they're mates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Nights Host Fire

Death and his companions made a fine revelry inside Rhysand’s head. A certain darkness, not entirely of his own making, lingered at the edges of his consciousness, seducing him towards the shade where things were cool and he could escape the feverish heat that made sweat trickle from his temples to his neck. Eddying towards a sea of mist, a land unseen but not unheard of, a cloud of ash. 

He was going to die.

A shriek pierced through him, the sound of his younger sister taunting him as she flew ahead.

Hands guided him into a soft lap made of gossamer starlight, the gentle touch of his mother as she took him from another nightmare.

Lips quirked in feral grins, dirt caressing his face as he and his brothers wrestled one another while trying to catch their breathes from laughter.

And then, there were her eyes. Grey like the clouds that befell the mountains of Velaris, tinted blue like the stormy sea at the peak of an oncoming wrath. Those eyes that could undo a man, that made him feel debased and revolutionized all at once. His salvation…now truly his savior as she’d knelt over him and tore the ash arrows from his membranous wings. Too late, he thought to mention that her efforts would all be in vain. His body was already rotting, the poison quickening with each rasp for air.

Thinking about those he’d leave behind, and those he’d greet once more, and those he’d only seen once before but wished to befriend if not for all his masks and schemes, Rhysand closed his eyes and dreamed.

It wasn’t an hour past when he was roughly awaken.

The layers of blanket she’d cocooned him in were now bestrewn across the ground, jostled in his desultory slumber. A sheen of sweat covered his bare chest, even though he felt wintry cold. He offered Feyre a strained smile as she entered, only to have her chuck a weed at him, showering his skin in murky water and soil.

“Chew on that.”

His smile faded.

Not wanting to upset her further, Rhysand obeyed and began tasting the strange plant slowly—only to realize what herb he was eating and quickly forcing himself not to gag on the medicinal remedy. He shoved more into his mouth and painfully swallowed, the taste not doing much to ease his fever-addled mind.

Feyre disentangled her jacket and pulled up her sleeve, savagely cutting a line against her forearm with a blade he hadn’t even seen her procure. His eyes widened, but before he could form a proper reaction, she’d dropped to her knees before him and shoved her arm near his face.

“Drink this. Now.”

He blinked, raising a brow in hesitant questioning, but she didn’t wait for his response as she grabbed his hair and forced him to take from her life source that which was contained within all seven High Lords at a point in time. If it weren’t for the direness of the situation, and the fury in her eyes, Rhysand might have chuckled at the demanding hellion she’d become. Might have.

After sucking three times, she pulled back and stood erect, looking down at him.

Blood lingered on his lips, but his face was expressionless, if not a bit worried, as he gazed up at her.

“You don’t get to ask questions,” she breathed harshly. “You only get to answer them. And nothing more.”

Unearthly trepidation crept down his spine as wariness flooded him, sure to be seen in his eyes. He didn’t bother masking anything from her now. He only braced himself for what was about to come. In that instant, as he watched the blood trail dry on her arm and her wind-stroked hair float in front of her burning eyes, looking every bit a wild goddess, Rhysand swore to tell her the truth, no matter the question. She deserved it.

“How long have you known that I’m your mate?”

His heart stopped. Then started. Then stopped again.

Rhysand went still as death.

“Feyre,” he rasped.

“How long have you known that I’m your mate?”

How long, how long, how long…

Ever since I witnessed your bravery during the Middegard trial, when you slew the wyrm and chucked that bone shard at Amarantha. When you’d fought so viciously for a world that wasn’t your own, not caring who’s lives were at risk other than the fact that people would be slaughtered. Before you’d even lifted the ash blade, knowing in your heart that three lives, four including your own, were better to take than the whole of Pythian. 

But he knew, indefinitely, when she turned to him on the balcony overlooking the great North, her eyes alight with the promise of a new world, her weak and wary bones locking in place like a natural born warrior. He knew she’d be his salvation, his savior, the one to hold his heart as though her breath were the wind on which his wings soared. He’d known since before they’d met, since before Calanmai—if he dared to imagine it. In his should, he’d always known. Always been looking.

But he said none of this.

Not when those words meant more hurt and misery for this lovely, fractured creature. Not when her heart still drifted South towards Spring, or farther beyond the Wall towards a realm no longer welcoming of her kind.

So instead, Cauldron damn him, he said what he could. “You…You ensnared the Suriel?”

Waves crashed against rocks in her eyes. “I said you don’t get t ask questions.”

Panic swathed him, so he chewed on more of the herb in hopes that it would inspire a better response. He could feel some color already flooding back to life in his face, even as his soul drowned.

“I suspected for a while,” Rhys finally said, swallowing deeply. “I knew for certain when Amarantha was killing you. And when we stood on the balcony Under the Mountain—right after we were freed, I felt it snap into place between us. I think when you were Made, it…it heightened the smell of the bond. I looked at you then and the strength of it hit me like a blow.”

Over half a year ago, he uselessly reminded himself. The honesty of his words lifted a meager amount of the weight that had settled on his bones, but only a very small portion. Feyre remained unswayed—a huntress in true form.

“When were you going to tell me?”

Beyond the cave, the wind had picked up.

“Feyre.” Rhysand couldn’t breathe, his panic building to unimaginable levels.

“When were you going to tell me?” She’d snarled, and he felt something inside him break at her tone, at the agony behind the anger.

“I don’t know. I wanted to—yesterday. Or whenever you’d noticed that it wasn’t just a bargain between us. I hoped you might realize when I took you to bed, and—“

“Do the others know?”

The Mother, he thought eerily calm, had a cruel sense of humor, to grant such a gift only to have it be his demise. “Amren and Mor do. Azriel and Cassian suspect.”

Shame and guilt flittered across her face, as well as reproach. His damn heart splintered and he knew it was all his fault. Everything happening in this Mother forsaken cave was his fault.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She whispered.

Rhysand answered truthfully. “You were in love with him; you were going to marry him. And then you….you were enduring everything and it didn’t feel right to tell you.”

“I deserved to know.”

Yes, he felt like moaning. You deserved to know everything, and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Please. Feyre, please.

He croaked, “The other night you told me you wanted a distraction, you wanted fun. Not a mating bond. And not to someone like me—a mess.” She visibly flinched at the echo of her old words.

“You promised—you promised no secrets, no games. You promised.”

Shit shit shit shit, his head was going to rupture if his heart didn’t already. He knew this was a long time coming, this confrontation, but…this was not how it should be. This was the worst possible scenario, and he was hurting her. Mother and Cauldron damn him, he was hurting her and he didn’t know how to stop.

“I know I did,” Rhys said, “You think I didn’t want to tell you? You think I liked hearing you wanted me only for amusement and release? You think it didn’t drive me out of my mind so completely that those bastards shot me out of the sky because I was too busy wondering if I should tell you, or wait—or maybe take whatever pieces that you offered me and be happy with it? Or that maybe I should let you go so you don’t have a lifetime of assassins and High Lords hunting you down for being with me?”

“I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to hear you explain how you assumed that you knew best, that I couldn’t handle it—“

No, don’t think that. “I didn’t do that—“   
“I don’t want to hear you tell me that you decided I was to be kept in the dark while your friends knew, while you all decided what was right for me—“

“Feyre—“

“Take me back to the Illyrian camp. Now.”

Something in his chest was caving in on itself. “Please.”

Her stormy eyes didn’t bat a lash. “Take me back now.”

 

But even her words, even her sea stained eyes couldn’t hide the pain that burned behind them. And it devoured him whole. His agony must have been clear as the dawn on his pale face, but Feyre paid him no mind as he rallied all his strength, leaving behind his walls, and winnowed them to the Illyrian camp.

We slammed into the hard packed dirt just outside of the little stone house.

Rhysand had meant to winnow them inside, but his power dissipated midway and they had breached the border before toppling into the frozen ground. He made certain she landed above him, covering her fall with his shoulders.

Cassian and Mor sprinted towards them, scanning them over for injuries. Cassian, after assessing Feyre, rushed over to help Rhysand sit up. His rough hands were familiar and strong against his brother’s back. Rhys groaned.

“Feyre.”

She marched up to Mor, who looked upon the unfolding scene with wide eyes, and said something too low for him to hear. But when Mor’s brows rose, and she glanced west, he realized Feyre asked her to escort her away. Away from him.

He moaned her name again, and then the women were gone.

After he had to growl at Cassian to let him be, that his wounds weren’t going to kill him, his brother gave one last wary glance at Rhysand’s back before closing the bedroom door. Rhys had no doubts that Cassian was sitting on the roof, protecting his injured brother while he couldn’t protect himself. Rhys couldn’t think on it, for his head was elsewhere…wherever Mor had winnowed with his mate.

Days passed.

Mor avoided him, not because she blamed him, but because she couldn’t look him in the eyes and not tell him where she’d left Feyre. Cassian knew when to push boundaries, and he knew this wasn’t the time. So his siblings whispered, and watched at a distance while Rhys walked through the copse of forest lining the camp and disappeared into the wintry woods.

He walked through the woods at a leisurely pace, wings out but tucked in behind him. A few Illyrian’s flew above the ivory canopy towards camp, carrying firewood and fresh kills. They didn’t notice him, and he never faltered his aimless path. He truly didn’t know where he was headed, just that it was away.

Feyre could only be in a few places, that much he knew. Mor wouldn’t dare leave her alone where their shields would fail to protect her, and they only left permanent shields on a handful of residences. He had his theories about where she was, but venturing towards her now would defeat the purpose behind her departure. He didn’t dare infuriate her more than she already was.

So Rhysand respected her space, and he began to ponder the bond between them as well as he continued along the towering trees.  
Mates were of a rare variety, almost as rare as offspring. Beloved above all else, sometimes mating was deadly. Not only did it create ruptures between feuding families, or cause men to become unreasonably volatile, it also formed a primitive nature that demanded each mate protected and cared for the other. He already knew he’d travel to the ends of the realm for Feyre, but would she reciprocate the gesture?

His mate, with her mortal heart, hosted more compassion for a single being than a High Fae could for an entire land. It was only one of the reasons he fell in love with her. But he also knew she was cunning, and had a strong sense of self preservation. She knew what it felt like to fall in love and keep falling, with no one there to catch her. Would she try it again, knowing the stakes were set even higher? Knowing that her mate had lied to her all these months?

Rhysand snarled, and a flock of animals scattered. He spied a mossy tree stump and perched on it for a moment, inspecting the tattoos on the inside of his arm. That was another thing. He loves his people more than his heart could summon blood, and his love for Feyre rivaled his love for Velaris. Would she share that admiration for the Night City? Would she become it’s High Lady— because the Mother knew he wouldn’t want her to be just a consort. That invoked too many other titles and assumptions that he’d rather leave behind.

Feyre was more than a plaything, more than a High Fae. She was meant to be his equal in every way, and if she would have him…he’d make her his Queen. Be that as it may, Feyre was already her own Queen. He just wondered if she knew it.

More days passed, and Rhysand was losing the battle with his habitual side. The need to be near his mate was driving him mad. Mor bit her lip when she noticed Rhysand’s ragged breathing one night, and she turned to leave the house. He felt awful, so he went outside before she could set another foot near the looming bonfire.

“Mor.”

She turned to him, the guilt clear in the set of her jaw.

“I understand what you’re doing for her, and I thank you. Please don’t feel guilty over not telling me where Feyre is. She needed to be alone, and I will respect her wishes as I respect the laws of this land. Don’t worry about me—eventually, things will…be better.”

“Rhys,” she whispired, coming closer to him. “It’s killing me to see you so tormented. I want to uphold my promise to Feyre, but I also want you to be at ease. Perhaps,” she swallowed, “Perhaps it’s time for you to go to her.”

He blanched, about to refute her proposal when she shook her head quietly.

Mor said with more determination, “It’s been over a week. Any more time away and the two of you might begin to decay like a tree with root rot. Go to her, Rhys. It’s time.”

He frowned, but he knew she was right. So he nodded, and made to turn North…towards the cabin. Mor’s eyes sparkled and she hid a smirk. She’d had a feeling he’d known.

Before he could take off, she said from behind him, “Bring my sister home.”

Then Rhysand let the wind push him back towards his mate.

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this a while ago in my blog but decided it needed another home. Thanks for the prompt @anon! All important dialogue from Sarah J Maas. I just twisted the POVs.


End file.
